Playing to Win (26 page)

"It has turned out well," was all he
said. Then a rueful laugh shook him. "A pity I didn’t save it for
my bride! I’m really fonder of it than any of my other properties.
In hindsight, it was a catastrophic mistake to install Rosie here.
I daresay no decent woman will deign to live in it now."

Clarissa was puzzled. "Who is Rosie?"
But the instant the words left her mouth, she wished she had bitten
her tongue out rather than utter them. She immediately realized who
Rosie must be! But the words were out, now, and she could not call
them back. She glanced at Mr. Whitlatch, shamefaced, and saw that
he was watching her discomfiture with unholy amusement.

"Miss Feeney, I am surprised at
you."

She felt her cheeks grow hot. "I am
sorry—" she started to say, but Trevor continued as if he had not
heard her.

"I would have thought that a woman of
your intelligence would instantly recognize the name of the person
who perpetrated that horror on my second-best bedchamber. I thought
you might guess it when you first saw the room."

She understood him at once. Rose! That
pink, rose-strewn bedchamber had been designed for a woman named
Rose. It was so obvious, so painfully, absurdly obvious, that her
blush deepened at her own stupidity.

But Trevor was shaking his head at her
in mock sorrow. "Did you think
I
had decorated that room?
You wound me, Miss Feeney!"

"I—well, really, I—Mr. Whitlatch, it is
none of my business!"

"On the contrary," he said
unexpectedly. "It is very much your business."

"H-how? What do you mean?"

He looked at her a moment, as if
considering. "Walk with me," he said abruptly, and swung down from
the saddle with the ease of an athlete. He led both horses to a
nearby tree and tethered them, then reached up for her
peremptorily. She slid cautiously off the saddle and into his
waiting arms. He set her on her feet, but kept one arm around her,
steadying her as he led her back to the top of the rise. Then he
stepped behind her, turning her to face out over the peaceful
valley, and slid both arms round her waist, holding her
fast.

"Look at it," he murmured. His breath
stirred the plume on her hat and set it fluttering against her
cheek like a butterfly’s caress. "Did you ever see a lovelier
home?"

"Never," she whispered. His arms felt
strong and comforting. She could not resist leaning back against
her friend, and felt him cuddle her gently when she did. It was so
pleasant to stand here, Trevor’s comfortable strength at her back,
and gaze down on Morecroft Cottage. It looked like a doll’s house
from this height, small and perfect and golden, slumbering in the
sunlight. A magical place, infinitely desirable.

"I want you to live there," he told
her. "I want it to be your home." His voice was low, husky with
some strong emotion. She felt answering emotion begin to rise in
her.
Home.
What a lovely word. This house. This man. She
could feel it pulling her like the tide, strong, inexorable.
Resistless, she let the longing sweep through her.
Home.

She was pressed so snugly against his
body, she could feel his voice vibrate against the back of her
shoulders. "Would it be so terrible, Clarissa, to live for awhile
in that house with me?"

Clarissa tore her gaze from the lovely
valley and turned her head to look into Trevor’s dark eyes. They
were so close to hers, the power of his personality instantly
seemed to overwhelm her. It was as if her own will melted and
seeped away, bewitched. The magic spell the day had woven still
held her in its net; she felt drugged, suspended in time, dreaming
here in Trevor’s arms.

A faint smile curved the edges of his
mouth. "I’ll tear out all the pink. Next week, if you like. We’ll
replace it with blue, or yellow, or whatever you choose—although I
must say," he said, cupping her cheek and looking into her face,
"that pink becomes you to admiration."

Clarissa caught the faint, clean scent
of his shaving soap and felt the heat radiating from him, warming
her. She knew she ought to break away. She ought, at least, to
answer him. Why was his touch so confusing, so overpowering? She
could only stare wordlessly into Trevor’s eyes while her thoughts
whirled and scattered like leaves in a wind.

"Clarissa," he whispered. "Stay with
me."

The sound of his voice breathing her
name seemed to shoot through her like heat lightning. She saw his
eyes darken with desire and purpose, saw his expression change, and
knew he was going to kiss her. She parted her lips to protest, but
whatever words she meant to say vanished, forgotten, as his mouth
came down on hers.

Nothing in Clarissa’s life had prepared
her for this experience. It was shockingly intimate, thrilling and
terrifying at once. His heat enveloped her; she felt dizzy. Her
knees went suddenly weak and her eyes drifted shut. The world
seemed to tilt crazily, and she was grateful for the strong arm
supporting her.
Stay with me.
No words had ever sounded
sweeter. She clung to him for a long moment, yielding. Then his
mouth slanted and she felt him pulling her tighter against him. His
kiss became insistent, demanding. Alarm clanged faintly in the back
of her mind, and she suddenly recalled the other words he had said:
For awhile.

Sanity returned in a cold rush. Her
eyes flew open.

Clarissa clutched at the lapels of
Trevor’s coat. "Stop! Stop!" she managed to say, in a tiny, shaking
voice. She struggled briefly and then staggered as he suddenly let
her go. His hands came up, gripping her shoulders, and she hung
there in his grasp, panting and shaken.

His expression was so queer—eager,
hungry, hurt. His fingers squeezed her too tightly. He was too
close; she needed air. She could not breathe with him so close. She
could not think.

Clarissa pulled away from him,
frantically, and ran, half-stumbling, back toward the horses. She
yanked fiercely at Daisy’s tether, freeing the animal. Tossing the
reins up onto the pommel, Clarissa scrambled somehow, anyhow, into
the saddle.

She heard Trevor give a hoarse shout
behind her, but she neither looked back nor waited. Sobbing now,
her teeth gritted, Clarissa clung to Daisy and urged her forward.
She had to go. She had to go.

Chapter 17

Headlong flight is all very well in its
way, but eventually one’s horse tires. By the time Daisy signaled
her disapproval of Clarissa’s inexperienced attempt to ride
ventre à terre
to nowhere in particular, Clarissa’s
turbulent emotions had subsided somewhat.

She slowed Daisy to a sedate walk, an
instruction of which Daisy patently approved, and composed herself.
A few seconds spent arranging her skirts, tugging on her jacket,
patting at her curls and straightening her hat did much to restore
Clarissa’s equilibrium. She now felt ashamed of her tears, and of
the panicked impulse that had driven her to run from Mr. Whitlatch
like one demented. What on earth was the matter with her? All her
emotions seemed so close to the surface these days. She could
neither understand them nor control them. She had never behaved so
irrationally in her life; it was completely unlike her.

Of course, she had never let a man kiss
her before, either. She realized now that the disgusting intimacy
the music master had forced on her when she was sixteen was
not
a kiss. She had believed, based on that one horrible
experience, that kissing was repulsive. Today she had learned that
it was, in fact, the music master who had been repulsive. Being
kissed by Trevor Whitlatch was entirely different. Not disgusting
at all, actually. In fact—but as her memory stirred, those
inexplicable tears began to well within her again. What
was
the matter with her? She hastily turned her thoughts in a different
direction.

Daisy was taking her down a rather
dusty lane which Clarissa, naturally, did not recognize. It wound
through fields that were bare now, after the harvest, and
consequently devoid of farm laborers. Not a soul was visible. There
was no one to ask for directions.

Not that Clarissa had made any final
decision as to where she was going. She dreaded returning to
Morecroft Cottage, but she had nowhere else to go. And there was
the small matter of her trunks. Not to mention the fact that she
was riding a horse that did not belong to her, and wearing clothes
that did not belong to her. Still, if she could only hit upon an
alternate destination, she felt she would be very glad to go there,
returning the horse and retrieving her things at some later
date—preferably by messenger.

She reached a fork in the road and
reined Daisy in, looking anxiously about her. The main road seemed
to be bending to the right; the left branch dwindled almost
immediately into a lane that was more a cart-track than a proper
road. But there was no signpost, and the landscape conveyed no
information to a stranger’s eye. Fields stretched to her right, and
a scrubby wood to her left. Daisy tossed her head and blew softly,
and Clarissa patted the animal’s neck, more to reassure herself
than the mare.

"Good girl, then," said Clarissa
absently. She sighed. "You would
think
that some helpful
person would erect a sign, would you not? Really, I have half a
mind to turn down this lane. It has every appearance of leading to
a farmhouse. What do you think?"

Daisy expressed no clear opinion.
Clarissa hesitated, nibbling the tip of one gloved finger. Just
then she heard footsteps stamping and rustling in the brush to her
left, and held Daisy steady, her eyes brightening with relief. In a
few seconds the brush parted and a man in leather gaiters emerged,
his dog bounding beside him and a rifle slung on a strap over his
shoulder. He stopped in his tracks and stared, slackjawed, when he
saw Clarissa.

Clarissa smiled blindingly at him. "Oh,
sir, I was never more glad to see anyone! Pray, can you tell me
where I am?"

The man was very young, seemingly just
past boyhood. He had a round, pleasant face dominated by a pair of
large brown eyes framed in thick lashes. These goggled at her for a
moment, and then he seemed to awaken from his sudden stupor. He
flushed like a girl, and pulled off his hat. A lock of brown hair
immediately fell across his brow. He raked it back with his
fingers, stammering.

"I b-beg your pardon! We seldom see
strangers in—
heel,
Sam! Sit, sir!" This to the dog, who had
approached Daisy, tail wagging, and caused the mare to dance
sideways. The dog obliged the lad by trotting back to him, and he
grasped its collar and pressed its hindquarters until it squatted
down beside him, gently panting. The young man’s face was now beet
red. "I’m frightfully sorry—he’s still a puppy, you know, and I’m
afraid he’s not very well trained."

"He’s quite large for a
puppy."

"Oh, yes! I daresay he’ll be as big as
a mastiff." He thumped his pet vigorously and told it it was a good
dog. Then he glanced shyly up at Clarissa again. "Did you say you
were lost?"

She laughed, her nose wrinkling
comically. "No, I did not—but I am! I’ve no sense of direction, and
I have never been in this part of the country before. I haven’t the
least idea where I may be. I don’t know what I would have done if
you hadn’t come along. Followed that track, I fancy, until I found
someone to ask." She pointed with her riding crop.

The young man chuckled. "You’d have
caught cold at that! That’s the road to Mr. Manvers’s farm. He’s a
testy old gentleman, and dislikes females. He’d be more likely to
chase you off with a broom than give you directions."

"Heavens! I’ve had a lucky escape,
then."

"Yes, rather." His shy smile returned.
"I would be very glad to be of service to you, if I
may."

"Thank you, you are very good. Only
tell me where this road leads and I shall be very much in your
debt."

He pointed ahead. "This lane joins the
Pentonville Road. And behind you is Islington."

Well. It was clearly time for her to
decide where she was going. She knew nothing of either Pentonville
or Islington, but now that she had been told where the lane led,
she would look like an imbecile if she loitered, irresolute, at the
crossroads. And still she hesitated. The young man watched her
expectantly. She blushed.

"And—and which way, pray, is Morecroft
Cottage?" she asked, as nonchalantly as she could.

His eyes grew round with wonder and
doubt. "Morecroft Cottage? Mr. Whitlatch’s place?" His gaze
traveled over her, and a troubled look crossed his features.
Clarissa felt her blush intensify when he asked incredulously, "Are
you stopping there?"

She tried to look haughty. "Yes, I am.
For the present."

She watched his expression change as he
palpably withdrew. She could feel his disapproval, and it stung.
This well-brought-up, likeable young man was altering his opinion
of her based solely on the information that she was a guest of Mr.
Whitlatch. She had to curb a sudden impulse to explain, to tell him
exactly why she was there and her innocence of any wrongdoing, to
pour out excuses and beg him to believe her. It was impossible to
do any such thing, of course. So she sat in miserable silence while
the admiration in the young man’s expressive eyes turned to reproof
and condemnation.